From a memory that is able to forget is born the truest form of authenticity. It is self-creating and overcoming; the transcending not only beyond but through the everydayness of otherness. One’s consciousness, one’s self-for-itself, will burn brighter than the sun when its chains snap apart and it flies from the dark landscape of the scuffling herd . They would not even notice but stay strapped to their illusions, caught between their affairs and harmonies; lost in a wilderness that swallows them whole and leaves little trace of their presence except a slab of stone and a passive remark. And the conscience that shadows them, as it soars above, can only look down and pity the souls staggering below.
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